


Fringe Radical

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: tamingthemuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 02:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his day kids at least had something worthwhile to protest, like the goddamn war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fringe Radical

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's tamingthemuse community, for the prompt 'fringe'. Thanks to persnickett who listened when I cried _I've got nothing for this prompt nothing hellllllp meeeee_ and came through with three ideas. She rocks like whoa.
> 
> * * *

The call comes in when John's on the way home at the end of a sixteen hour day.

He'd been elbow deep in paperwork on the Sutter case all day, only half paying attention to the sporadic news reports on the tiny black and white propped on Manny's corner desk, the picture fading away to flickering snow more often than not, staying that way until Manny thumped the set with one beefy fist and shocked it back to life. Some student demonstration at NYU, mostly long-haired hippie types waving signs and shouting cutesy rhyming slogans. They were protesting the use of those adorable little bunnies for medical testing, or the inclusion of growth hormones in feed grain, or the erection of a nuclear power facility on the campus, or some other equally ludicrous bullshit. John hadn't actually been following along, because he'd like Scalvino to crawl out of his goddamn ass about the paperwork sometime this week. He'd glanced up occasionally whenever the reporter's voice turned particularly grave but didn't really care about the particulars. 

He'd left the police radio on for the drive home, mostly because… well… at least they were voices. Crackling, disembodied voices talking about drive-by shootings and hate crimes, but sometimes that was better than the silence that descended in the car even when he was driving through midtown traffic, the thoughts in his head drowning out the bleating horns. Hell, he'd moved his home receiver into the dining room, spent too many nights letting Rhonda's droning voice and snapping gum be his dinner companion, calls about five car pileups and shop-owners gutted with knives his one-sided dinner conversation.

Because anything was better than being reminded that he was eating alone – again. That his son returned his last letter unopened – again. That his daughter wasn't talking to him – again. 

Letting the crimes of the city wash over him as he gnawed his way through an undercooked pork chop and pounded back two more beers than were strictly necessary was better than thinking, thinking, always thinking, and remembering that he'd had the chance for something more. That some shaggy-haired hacker had spent three days with him on the run and several more sharing his hospital room, watching him from beneath the fringe of unkempt bangs, blinking big doe eyes and gnawing at his lower lip and using way too many words trying only to say _I like you. I want to try this. I want to see you again_. 

John had clamped his lips shut and pretended not to hear.

And when the call comes through on his drive home John is definitely not thinking about Matthew Farrell, or words unspoken, or opportunities not taken. He merely sighs and picks up the mic – "Double Oh Seven Seven, six blocks away, responding" – and flicks on the siren, puts the pedal to the metal. Thinks about how _in his day_ kids at least had something worthwhile to protest, like the goddamn war.

He's not thinking about Matt Farrell at all, not when he wades into the fray of the demonstration gone horribly wrong, not when he watches a line of SWAT-clad officers launching smoke bombs into the crowd. Not when he reaches down to haul up one of the fallen protestors, the guy digging in his heels even when John hooks his fingers into his jean jacket and yanks hard, sending him pin-wheeling to his feet. It's only when he's spun the guy around to read him the riot act – pun definitely not intended – that he makes note of the big brown eyes looking up at him, the hair grown even more long and shaggy since July.

Matt grins weakly. "Hey, McClane."

John blinks. "Oh, _shit_."


End file.
